The Deep Link (The Ascendancy Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

Begum grins in Hurst's general direction through the
one-way mirror.

"We gave her synaptic stimulants." She shivers
from the cold of the Mazan atmosphere recreated inside the cage, pointing at
the creature an arm's length away. Then she reaches out and
pets
the
beast's head with her naked hand, leaving streaks in the gooey substance it has
smeared over itself. Hurst raises an eyebrow.

The Klacker stops its grooming and lowers its four front
legs to the floor of the cage, standing now on all eight, its head level with
Begum's chest, its antennae arching up over her head.

"She's docile," Begum says, her jaws clenched
from the cold. "In fact, she's now receptive to commands—the first
Dorylini ever. The Cyans did something to her brain that makes her respond to a
certain type of synaptic stimuli with nearly
no
reservation. Took us a
bit to find out which stimuli we can use, but the lab's AI narrowed it down
eventually. It's like her instinctual, primal responses are annulled, and any
signal coming in is unquestioned. Everything I suggest, it immediately
accepts."

Begum wipes her hand off on the front of her overall,
smearing the Klacker mucus all over herself. She taps something on her nacom,
and issues a command: "Lay down."

The Klacker lowers its thorax and gaster to the ground,
and leans its antennae backward over its body in a resting position.

Begum taps something on her nacom again. "Roll over."

Hurst leans forward as the monster rolls over obediently.
The doctor grins proudly, until Hurst addresses her directly through her
synet—overriding her security settings with his TMC emergency code—and relays a
new order to her.

The doctor stares at the one-way mirror, shaking her head
slightly, unsure what to do. Hurst repeats the order, and the doctor presses
her lips tight, and nods. "Rip out your mandibles."

The Klacker latches on to its own mandibles with its
front-most legs. It yanks both of them sideways and up with a loud crack,
snapping the pivot joint open and tearing the muscles inside free. Gelatinous
yellow blood oozes from the wounds, and the creature lets the useless
appendages clatter to the floor.

Begum shakes from head to toe, staring at the mirror,
waiting for Hurst to rescind his next order. He doesn't.

She swallows. "Eat them."

The creature complies without hesitation. It retrieves the
discarded mandibles and opens its mouth—two chitinous labrum flaps disjointing
to reveal two smaller, fleshy ones underneath—and starts to eat.

Hurst nods, smiling.

Begum exits the cage and is wrapped in a thermo-coat by an
assistant. She detaches the oxy-mask from her face, her teeth chattering from
the freezing cold.

"Satisfied?" She glares at Hurst.

"Very impressive."

"It does anything I order, as you can see."
Begum rubs her hands along her arms to warm up. "This confirms my theory
that the Cyans discriminate between hosts—they use the primitive ones as raw
material to replicate themselves and turn the intelligent ones into remote
controlled units. It's fascinating."

"You mean whoever created these Cyans can infect and
remote control any intelligent creature?"

She shrugs. "We've only done tests on Dorylinae so
far, but I believe it's likely, yes." Begum returns the thermo-coat to her
assistant. "It's just that the Cyans don't seem to
do
anything with
the Worker as yet. We can't be sure of their true function and purpose at this
juncture; all we can do now is hypothesize and continue testing."

Hurst thinks back to the alien ship that appeared at the
site of the Cyan carnage. He
hates
not having any information about it.
What if they're involved in this? The probes he sent out after the attack found
no trace of that ship. The AIs he tasked with the plotting of its most probable
flight trajectories and destinations, and the subsequent deep-space imaging
drones he dispatched, found nothing either. It couldn't have fled unnoticed
without terrific camouflage capability. And ships with that ability don't flee.
Not in his experience, anyway. He assumes it's still out there, watching. What
if
they
planted that damn cluster of Cyans out there? What if they
intend to attack humanity with it?

Hurst turns around and heads for the door. "Don't let
that Klacker out of your sight. If it does anything dangerous, shoot it, and
jettison the carcass into space. Otherwise, carry on with your tests."

San Gabriel looks as if two planet halves got pressed
together wrong. An enormous mountain range surrounds the equator and pierces
its thin, yellowish atmosphere, jerking left and right, up and down like a
careless stitch.

The southern hemisphere is bathed in light by Epsilon
Eridani's distant orange star. It has countless deep channels that run down
from the mountain range to a large, yellow sea at the southern pole, while the
northern hemisphere is mostly barren rock scarred by craters, gradually
darkening toward the north.

The flexpad I got from Jade says the sea is mostly made of
sulfuric and nitric acid, encrusted with a layer of thick permafrost. It's
exploited for all it's worth in chemical resources by the industrial colony
built near its shore. The mountain range around the equator is created by the
gravitational pull of the planet's massive moon, Hades, that's about half the
planet's diameter and almost an eighth its mass. San Gabriel has no plate
tectonics, the protrusions and deformities all Hades' work.

We approach the planet from the south in a long-winding
curve, and begin our descent into orbit. We're all gathered in a
cockpit-briefing-lunch-room sort of thing, to go over the planned activities
for the next couple of days. The pilot is sitting at an improvised computer
terminal with eight displays and a projector, several ancient looking
button-panels with flips and switches covered with a splatter of burn marks. He
struggles to prepare for an atmosphere dive, his hands darting from one pad to
the next. At least there are no windows in here, so I can't see us crash and
burn. All I've got is the live feed on my flexpad, a compilation of all the
feeds from the ship's outer sensors.

There's a row of strap-seats along each wall of our
cockpit mockup, and people are fidgeting and whispering to each other. I sit on
the large table that's bolted down in the middle of the room, balancing the
flexpad on my knees.

How strange of Preston to come here. Cislunar space is
under constant supervision from Hades, and there are many TMC posts planetside
as well. He'd better have the heck of a support system down here, or we're
fried.

As the piss-yellow seashore slides underneath our ship, I
see a bump swell up on the planet's horizon, bulging out like a gas-filled
blain.

"That's Erano," Jade says, leaning against the
table next to me.

The dome is much bigger than I imagined, bigger than any
of the colonies I've been to so far.

"Population twelve million," Jade says.
"Capacity by design, seven."

"Seriously?"

"Uh-huh. Excessive immigration. That name will be a
self-fulfilling prophecy if they don't earn themselves the necessary credits to
expand pretty damn soon."

I frown at him. "What name?"

"Erano means something like '
has been
' in
Terran Italian. When the colony was first mounted two centuries ago, it was
called
Siamo di Dio
. A Christian hub, mostly Catholic. Pope Ecaterina
The Third even flew out here to bless it. The Ticks renamed it about the same
time they settled on its moon and called it Hades to mock them. Right after
they killed Maican and took over the Wells. Didn't you read the files I gave
you back on Spiron?"

"I didn't get around to them," I say with a
shrug, but that's not fully true. I'm not used to reading actual text instead
of mind-browsing raw information from my synet, and my slowness pisses me off.

"Not much Christianity left after the
restructuring," Jade says with a wave of his hand. "Churches were
turned into housing stock, and building new ones is forbidden. At least as long
as the settlement's over-populated."

Now we're heading up toward the mountains. As we fly by
the colony's bulge, I magnify the feed as much as I can. My data says the dome
is maintained by a full decagon of Heaters. They're certainly casting the
biggest plasma-net I've ever seen over the nine-hundred-square-clicks of city.
Apparently it's the densest and thickest field of any colony world. The temporary
dome back on Maza was a soap bubble compared to this.

I stare at the continuous plasma filament net that forms
the structure of the dome field, and try to figure out how many tokamak
generators it takes to keep even a single Heater functional. Must be a dozen.
The Heaters are
enormous
, at least fifty meters high and half a click
wide. They look like massive blocks of metal built at the periphery of the
city, shooting continuous lighting across the artificial sky from rows upon
rows of spikes protruding from their roofs.

Jade smiles at the flexpad. "It's strangely
beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's strange alright."

I strain to make out more details through the sizzling
haze of the dome, but we're already gaining distance.

Jade leans back to look at Preston. "Have you figured
out where we're going to stay?"

"In D-Two, the tech-dev district," Preston says
from behind me. "I've arranged quarters a block away from the Spoke to
D-Three."

Jade whistles. "How did you manage
that
?"

"I have my ways. But housing's the least of our
problems. It's access we need to worry about, most importantly communication. I
haven't managed to find a way into Erano's grid just yet, since I can't make
use of Miss Harber's talents anymore."

I turn to look at him, but he's busy with his nacom. Bray,
however, isn't, and glares right back at me over Preston's shoulder.

"What?" I cock an eyebrow at him.

"I doubt Taryn's talent would do you any good,
doc," he says. "After all, she can't just crash into Hades and stab
the Commander, now can she?"

"No, but
you're
within reach."

"Bad temper; is that the talent everyone drones on
about?"

"It works fine for me."

"Quiet," Preston snaps. "Thoughtless
spacebrats, the lot of you. Bray, make sure everyone's prepped to debark as
soon as we land. And you, Miss Hot-Shot, invest your energies in something more
productive."

"Yes sir," I mock a TMC salute before busying
myself with the flexpad.

We're approaching the mountains, flying along a thick tube
jutting out of the dome. There's a bunch of smaller domes clustered at the base
of the mountain range, looking like puzzles of hexagonal and pentagonal
glass-sheets. They're connected by smaller tubes similar to the one we're
flying over.

A docking platform is visible on the side of the cluster,
covered in a bluish forcefield. The barren ground is riddled with caterpillar
and tire marks and the distinctive pattern of six-legged maintenance drones.

These are the colony's ore mines—my flexpad informs me—the
reason for its existence and the main source of its profits. Digging mines is
the first thing the Trust does on a promising world, right after they wipe out
all problematic life-forms. Once the mines start producing, a local government
is appointed and the colonization begins. It continues to expand as long as the
colony generates profit for the Trust and the Confederacy. When that's no
longer possible, the colony is dismantled or abandoned, and the colonists are
relocated—
if
they can afford it.

We're preparing to land in the cargo port. Preston's
probably chosen it over the public port on the shore because there are fewer
automatic personnel scanners to read people's synets back here. But there are
considerably more guards to oversee the shipping.

I return to my room to prepare for debarking. My backpack
reeks of vomit. The only thing untouched by my fugue meltdown is my old
skinsuit, made from a nano-synthetic fiber that repels practically anything. I
don the skinsuit and am in the midst of wrestling my hair into a bun when the
pilot announces our landing over the intercom.

Not much later, we're all standing on the 'ship's'
rampway, coughing as our lungs adjust to the cold, carbon-dioxide-rich
atmosphere of the cargo port dome. We've docked between an array of
miner-droids that look like headless elephants, parked with their steel-clad
behinds toward us, and a behemoth of a cargo ship that's currently being loaded
with containers the size of small houses. I count at least thirty TMC officers
swarming around it.

Preston leads us down to meet the five officers lined up before
us, hands on their weapons. They're clad in TMC navy-blue and chrome skinsuits,
wearing the San Gabriel orange stripes on their sleeves and ankles, and the TMC
red star on their chests. A middle-aged man with a pitch-black goatee walks up
to Preston, and checks him head to boot as he listens to what he's got to say.
I can't make out their words over the cacophony of clunking metal and hissing
hydraulics, but Preston seems to be in his element.

Bray stares at the plasma gun turrets on top of the cargo
ship. Amelia stands next to him, and Franky almost holds on to his hand. Poor
kid. Beside them are Bob & Rob, glumly facing the officers. Vik has a
casual arm around Denise, and tries to look confident and inviolable, a feat
that he of all people is pretty close to accomplishing. But the fingers of his
other hand still twitch at his side. I can't blame any of them for feeling
edgy. I'm all kinds of anxious myself.

The goateed officer bares a mouthful of pearly-whites, and
shakes Preston's hand. The other officers allow us to pass, with Preston and
Goatee in the lead, taking us between the port's storage containers and
inspection posts.

The port is connected to the biggest mining dome in the
cluster by a short tube. Once inside the dome, where the air is warmer but just
as stuffy, we're taken to the main transport station. There's a building next
to it emblazoned with '
Cargo Distribution & Administration Center
'
in dark red letters. It reminds me of Maza's storage hall, where the Ticks
deposited the Dorylinae carcasses after 'interrogation.' Not a comforting sight
in the least.

"Just how good are Preston's connections down
here?" I whisper to Jade as we file into a neat queue to enter the
Administration Center.

"Ah, he's not as much of a big shot as he'd like to
be. He's only big in the underground. And by 'big' I mean self-important."

"Wouldn't another colony have been wiser?"

"One where he actually has to
work
for his
credits?" Jade snorts.

"Aren't you even a little bit worried? What kind of
friends are these, given where we are?"

"That's why it's best not to ask the doc about it."

"I don't like not knowing what I'm getting
into."

"You didn't know when we flew out to the aliens,
either," Jade says. "But you had no problem going all gung-ho on
us."

"That didn't work out so well. And it's not the
same."

"Why not?"

"I don't trust people."

"But you trust aliens?" He cocks an eyebrow at
me, but decides to let it slide. "Let's try to have some fun while we're
here, eh? Not worry so much."

"Won't be easy," I say. He groans, so I add,
"I'll try. Promise." And I will, too. It's just not easy to unwind.
Not with the constant sensation of someone else loose in my head.

We're led through a maze of crates and containers,
canisters and storage units, and into a web of conveyor-belts tended by dozens
of workers and droids. The people are dressed in the same dark-brown overalls
with orange wrist-stripes, and have that tired and waxy look on their faces I
always associate with industrial colonists. I do my best to stick with the
group and not make eye contact with anyone.

Goatee leads us into some sort of locker room, where we're
told to change into worker overalls and get ready for transfer. As we each try
to find something that fits I'm all eyes and ears. Preston and his local contact
are huddled together off to the side, exchanging information.

"…no fixed locations in D-Two since the last riot
wave," Goatee is saying in a hushed voice. "We've spread the assets
so they can't be spotted. Keeps 'em guessing."

"Good." Preston smooths his wiry beard.

"We don't stay put... coordinated by the... much
better, 'cause we don't know..."

The dropping of boots and zipping up of overalls, and the
small talk surrounding me drowns out Preston and Goatee's conversation. Too
bad. Something about their exchange makes me uneasy.

I look around idly, and notice Jade's injuries for the
first time. His whole torso is peppered with scratches, scars, and bruises of
various shades. He sees me staring, smiles briefly, and turns around. I zip up
my overall.

Franky's hovering around Bray like a nervous child, always
on the verge of saying something, but never quite opening his mouth. Bray seems
detached, almost disinterested in the trip we're about to take. He scans the
room and notices my scrutiny, but doesn't give me more than a fleeting glance.

Preston joins us. "We're taking the noon train. We'll
arrive at the outer border of D-Three in about an hour, then make our way
through it by industrial Maglev and enter D-Two near the top Rebreather. From
there on out we'll go by foot. Shuttle transportation is not an option, since
Miss Harber has no valid synet. Even the Maglev ride will be risky."

Amelia scowls at me. "Wonderful." She pulls her
earrings out, takes off her bracelets and her three necklaces and drops them
all into an aluminum mug, then sits on a plastic bench with an exasperated
sigh.

"If you're displeased with how I organize things,
Miss Buxton, feel free to go out there on your own," Preston says,
pointing up in the general direction of space.

Amelia mumbles something into her cleavage, but gives it a
rest.

When everyone's successfully camouflaged in the insipid
local garb, Goatee takes the lead again.

The super-speed cargo train waiting for us in the tube to
Erano looks like a gigantic metal snake. I can't see the seams between the
compartments and wagons, and no windows or fancy banners on its sides. The
train is still being loaded up with cargo further ahead, but it's so long, all
I can make out is a blur accompanied by the drum of robots heaving and stowing
crates.